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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



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THE 






BEING 






(.1^1 



littthij Mmnll iplnrms 



BY 



CHAELES L. WHELER 



l» 






1883 



■•^<i-oX: 



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"^^WASHtt^ 



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■BOSTON; 
EAN & WHELER. 
1851. 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year of our Lord 1851, by 

Cliarles L. Wheler, 
In the Clerk's Ofi&ce of the District Court of the State of New-Hampshire. 



Athenian Hall Office, Concord, N 11 




I 

niitmk 



HYMN TO NATUKE, 7 

WHEN SUNSETS GLORIES, 13 

LAKE WINNEPISSIOGEE, . .^7. 15 

SONG OF THE YANKEE FARMER,. 17 

TIME, FAITH AND ENERGY, 19 

THE APOLOGY 21 

A MORNING SONG, 22 

A MEMORY, 23 

THE RUINED MIND, ". 25 

MIRIAM, _ 33 

THE BUTTERFLIES, .36 

THE COMING ON OF WINTER, 37 

HONOR TO FREE LABOR, .39 

THE SMILE, 42 

OLDEN MEMORIES,. 43 

THE HUMAN SOUL, 45 

MY HEART'S QUEEN, 47 

LOVE'S DAINTY ROMANCE , .49 







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8 THE WINNOWING. 



Without reverberation into space, 

No Flower hath changed its primal hue, or lost 

A petaled leaf — no Bird but sings as first 

It sung, and flutters in its pristine sheen. 

The tiny seed that hath a subtle soul 

Whereof we little know, produces still 

Its kind, as in thy fair, edenic morn : 

Its kind, nor yet its likeness ; for where'er 

V\'e turn, no tree hath its exactest twin, 

Nor blade of grass, nor fruit, its patterned male. 

The flower that charmed and fruits that nourished 

them, 
The Primal Pair, still bloom and bourgeon, still 
Refresh, but tell not to the curious eye 
Of Edens site ; for then, as even now, 
Thy beauties stretched beyond the farthest bound 
That man's far-reaching race hath ever known. 

And what is man to thee ? The years that tell 
His generation, tear not a charm from thy 
llcsplendcnt face ! The race of hero-kings. 
That fills the earth with hollow shouts and loud 
Keverberation, pass aM-ay — and all 
Their immortality lasts not so long 
As lasts thy humblest flower ! And they, the vile, 
Des:cnorate souls, that bov/ to the old curse, 



POEMS. 9 

And pander to their lusts, until the mind, 
Debauched, cries out for more e'en when the flesh 
Proclaims its satisfaction — oh ! how far 
Debased beneath the humblest thing of life 
They are ! Oh, rather would I die as dies 
The blue-eyed Violet of early spring 
Than live the long-drawn life of shame they live ! 

O Nature ! ev'n in early youth my fleeting hours, 
Else spent in play, were dedicate to thee ! 
The shaded brook, whose waters wanton chased 
The shy sunbeams that through the foliage stole, 
As blithe they jumped from rock to rock, beheld 
Me as a worshipper ere scarce I knew 
The why I sought thy templed fane. Far down 
The brook there was a mossy rock that sang 
In sweeter tones than olden Memnon sung 
At touch of Morning's bright and genial beams. ^ '^ 
There have I daylong sat, in raptest trance. 
And heard the Aquian Harp, and watched the whirl 
And trip of waters in their play. I loved 
To walk the long-deserted forest path. 
Wherein the flowers and grass exultant grew ; 
To wander up and down the babbling brook ; 
To scale the lofty hills ; to note the flowers 
That throve in conscious pride where'er the rain 



lO THE ^vINlS'o^VI^"(.. 

And sunshine wooed them — -these were joys that 

won 
Me from the sports of 3'outh. And now, escaped 
The noisy town, I feel more deep than erst 
The sweet, outbreathing influences of all 
Thy happy scenes. The soft winds touch my brow 
Like wings of guardian spirits ; th' flowers wild 
Distil a balm upon my soul that lulls 
The fevered pain ; the song of birds brings back 
The blissful memories of sinless days ; 
And all things ministrations exercise, 
Peculiar and divine, to beatify 
My quick-consenting heart. 

In thee, Nature ! 
I own a Teacher, silent and serene ! 
The Rose, down drooping with a cankered heart, 
The Violet, by storms prostrated low 
Within its natal morn, toitehingly tell 
The vanity of human love and hope. 
How silently the Lily mocks the Crown ! 
How eloquent the mountains hoar exhort 
To humbleness ! And he that walks thy paths 
With open eye and spirit rightly tuned. 
Shall meet evangels sweet in every thing ! 
The varied year shall teach in varied tongue : 



POEMS. 1 1 

The Spring shall brighten Hope's effulgent wing, 
And make the heart grow young again I The grass 
Up creeping from the freed, exulting brook, 
The flowers putting forth their petaled leaves 
In tender trust, shall come to him like voices 
From graves of those we love — telling that He 
Whose care sustained them in their winter-tomb, 
Shall lead our souls through Death's all-going gate 
To brighter worlds of endless morn ! The Fall 
Of th' year is full of sights admonishing 
Of man's mortality ; and Winter, swathed 
In whitest robes, whereon the sunbeams touch 
And linger half afraid, teaches austere 
Of man's last going forth. 

Froni out thy wonib, 
ph Nature ! spring the glories of the fleet 
And changeful year ! And thou that gave them birth 
Art sepulchre as well. From depths profound 
Of yonder wood, as from a chancelled aisle, 
A voice comes forth that stills the whisp'ring leaves, 
And sadly thrills through all my inmost soul : 
" Go forth, oh worshipper ! and count the sands 
Along yon ocean side ; or hence to farthest bounds. 
And number every forest leaf, nor deem 
It vain or profitless employ : for each 



12 THE WINNOWING. 



Is epitaph and monnment of men 

Whose life perchance was long as thine, and whose 

Ambition was stronger !" 

The clamb'ring vine 
Conceals the blasted oak and ruined v/all — 
The tufted grass, with flowers filigraned 
Between, doth charm our eyes till we forget 
The cold, damp grave beneath. And it is well. 
Oh Nature ! keep our lives in sweet accord 
To thee ! and when our ripened time shall come, 
The soul shall feel no pall upon its trust. 
I am content what time befalls. Plant trees 
Above my grave, and let their roots engird 
My frame around ; let flowers also bloom 
Thereon. So would I rest. A tree shall be 
My monument — a flower, my epitaph, 
Outlasting Theban pomp ! "^^ ** ** ** 




POEMS. 13 



-WHEN SUNSET'S GLORIES/' 

When Sunset's glories fade away 

Along Dorado's golden shore, 
In one green vale his beams delay 

And pensive o'er the landscape pour. 
So o'er the twilight Realm of Dreams 

The hallowed light of Eros pours, 
And oft thy trysting presence seems 

To meet me on those blissful shores- 

The Bee, benighted on the mead, 

And sleeping in the Lily's bed, 
And rocked by Zephyrs as they speed 

To wanton with the Roses red, 
Is not so purely lodged and kept 

As are my secret thoughts of thee ! — 
When thou wert gone have I not wept 1 

What Flower e'er wept the 'parting Bee ? 

The Daisies young, at shut of day. 
Defiant close their crimson gates ; 

And thus thy spirit wards away 
Each look that base imj^ortunates. 

2 



14: THE WINNOWING. 



But once I looked into thine eyes. 

Nor felt them turned away : 
In them I read, as in the skies, 

The dawn of Love's unending day. 

The Stars remind me of thine eyes, 

The Lilies of thy stately mien ; 
And something wakes a glad surprise — 

A thought of thee — in every scene ! 
— My heart is yearning for thy love 

With faith that nothing may divide I 
Oh ! shall my heart's unwearied dove 

Return for aye unsatisfied ? 

The treasures of the dirty mine 

I cannot, would not, offer thee ; 
A AVhite Rose were the better sign 

To speak the full heart's homage free ! 
Methinks thou deemest one true heart 

As wealth and worth enough for thcc : 
If so, believe me void of art, 

For none have ever loved like mc '. 

Soutli-Carolina— 1850. 



POEMS. 15 



LAKE WINNEPISSIOGEE.* 

Sweet Smile of the Spirit ! in beauty outstretching 
As fiir as the eye in its rapture can soar I 

How gladsome thy waters still sparkle in sunlight, 
And dance with a song on the pebble-strewn shore ! 

How beauteous the islets that smile on thy bosom 
Like gems on the breast of an amorous queen I 

And Rainbows that bend from the brow of Monadnoc 
Scarce equal the hues of their flowery sheen ! 

The sentinel mountains that tower above thee, 

And stand, like the gods, with their heads in the sky, 

Still shield thy fair bosom from boreal Tempests, 
That howl in their anger while hurrying by. 

Not wildly exalted the praise of thy beauty, 
Bestowed, in thy name, by the Indian tongue ; 

For where, in the climes by the godlike made classic, 
Have poets a brighter and fairer e'er sung ? 



■'* The -wovil "Winnciiitsiogee is, 1 believe, from the language of the Ossa- 
pees, a tribe now extinct. The word signifies the " Smile of the Great Spir- 
it.'' and is a beautiful exemplification of native i^oetical cxpresf^ion. 



16 THE WINNOWING. 



How oft have 1 lain on thy green sloping margin 
And mused on the legend that tells of thy birth — 

The beautiful tale of the Indian poet, 

Brought down from the days of the primitive earth. 

When God had completed, (so ran the tradition,) 
This Eden-like 1 land for the red hunter's home, 

He sate on his throne of radiance celestial, 

And drank in the whole as 'twere oped in a tome. 

He smiled with a joyance so great and exctatic, 
The tears of his gladness fell down from his face. 

And ever thereafter, among the blue mountains, 
The Indian hunter God's presence could trace, 

New-Hampshire — 1851- 




POEMS. 17 



[]ONG OF THE YANKEE PARMER. 
I. 

OuE boast is not of castled homes 

Up'on our thousand hills ; 
Our boast is not of noble blood 

That through our veins distils : 
No — 'tis our pride that we were born 

In Freedom's chainless clime, 
And if escutcheon we would bear, 
The Plough were choice sublime ! 
Were tillers of our Yankee land, 
We're stalwart men and true, 
Wlio toil with ready heart and hand 
Where'er there's icork to do. 

II. 

We reck not that our clime 's without 

The charm of classic fame ; 
Enough for us that Freedom here 

Re-lit her altar flame. 
To us this has a sweeter charm 

Than clusters round the graves, 
Where Roman chiefs unhonored lie 

Beneath their children's slaves.. 



18 THE WINNOWING. 

We're tillers of our Yankee land, 
And sons of freehorn men. 
Who hurled Oppression from its strand^ 
To Jie'er return again ! 

III. 

Our liomes are on ten thousand hills, 

And yet our hearts are one — 
Our voice is heard at Washington, 

Our will is ever done. 
We love our Home, and ne'er will seek 

For brighter streams afar. 
Than those which sing our eyes to sleep 
Beneath our evening star. 

We're tillers of our Yankee land, 
And delve icith hearty pride 
To make it fairer than the strand 
Of Arno's classic tide. 

Boston— 1836- 




POEMS. 19 



TIME, FAITH AND ENERGY, 

I TURNED and read historic pages, 

Filled with deeds of mighty men, 
Whose towering minds controled their agetj 

With the Sword and with the Pen ; 
And then I mused and questioned thoughtful 

How their hero-names were won, 
And how the teeming tomes were fraughtful 

With their deeds so nobly done : 
But while I sat and deeply pondered 

Over Act and Destiny, 
Unsummoned by the thought I squandered, 

Home the answer came to me : — 
" To every soul of genius towering 

God has given helpers three — 
The names of these, the vict'ry showering. 

Are ^imtf JFaitiD att^ Mnttg^.** 



— Time ! that aye with equal measure, 
Bears us on its ceaseless flow. 

Still lengthens out our hour of pleasure, 
Deadens every sharper v*'oe ! 

And he that sows, with godlike reason, 
Nebula of after deed. 



20 THE AVINNOWING. 



Shall find the harvest, in its season, 
Equal to his hope and need. 

• — Faith ! in God is life eternal. 

Faith in man's a tower of strength, 
And whoso hath this gift supernal, 

Shall obtain his hope at length. 
'Tis Faith that Avhispers to the spirit 

God is just and man is true — 
That tells the soul it shall inherit 

Things the faithless never knew. 

— Energy ! th' godlike soul and tireless 

Pent within our mortal clay, 
Ignites the Act that flickered fireless, 

Lights to-morrow in to-day ! 
It is the power that wins the glory 

Hallowing the Poet's name ; 
It is the power that gives to story 

Bright and fair the Hero's fame, 

O man ! that still with brave endeavor 
Toilest up Life's beaten way. 

Despair not — ftilter not — no, never 
Howe'er darkly glooms the day ! 

Still on ! though Penury and Sorrow 
Every ouAvard step pursue, 



POEMS. 21 

And still from great examples borrow 

Strength to bravely dare and do ! 
And whatsoe'er thy great ambition, 

Poet-wreath or hero-crown, 
Press onward in thy chosen mission, 

Waving all 'gainst Fortune's frown ! 
Yes, on ! and by these three supernal, 

By Time, Faith and Energy, 
The gifts of Earth that are eternal 

Shall at last be showered on thee ! 
Georgia— 1849. 



THE APOLOGY. 

The Bee that trifles with the Flower, 
Hath songs that well deceive it, 

But when its virgin sweets are gone, 
Ne'er feels a shame to grieve it, 

But, kissing you, I am no Bee, 
And well you may believe it, 

For every time I touch your cheek 
'Tis fairer as I leave it ! 



22 THE WINNOWIXG. 



A MORNING SONG. 

Akouse ! tlie King of Day is making his way 

Througli the golden gates of j\[orn ; 
And list ! gay Chanticleer, both far-off and near, 

Proclaims the night forlorn. 
Arouse ! 
And mount the fleet and graceful steed. 

And o'er the hills away, 
Away ! 
Till the dappled light upon the mead 

Dissolves in open day. 

Arouse ! the blithe Redbreast has left its snug nest 

And sings amid the flowers ; 
Whilst the Honey-bee, upon the flowery lea, 

Improves the morning hours. 
Arouse ! 
And mount the fleet and graceful steed, 

And o'er the hills away, 
Away ! 
Till the dappled light upon the mead 

Dissolves in open day. 

Cherokee (Country — 1850, 



POEMS. 



2:3 



A MEMORY. 

LoxG ago, beneath the arches 

Of our tall, patrician trees, 
Sat I in the evening twilight. 

Fanned by the gentle breeze : 
Meg was sitting close beside me, 

And her hand was laid in mine, 
While our hearts' united beating 

Acted Love's sweet pantomime. 

Forth the starry hosts were marching, 

In their bright and blazing helms, 
But I heeded not their splendor, — 

All my stars were 'neath the elms ! 
Oh, not with glasses telescopic 

Needed I to sweep the skies ; 
Heaven itself to me descended, 

And its stars were woman's eyes ! 

There we sat, and talked, and trifled. 
While the hours stole noiseless by ; 

Vows we made, and truth we plighted, 
That seemed too pure to ever die. 



24 THE WINNOWING. 



Thus oft we met, and oft we parted, 
Trimming still Love's guiltless lamp ; 

Venus' coming oft was looked for, 

But heedless passed Mars' fiery tramp. 

Sweetest flowers, born of beauty, 

Perish ere the rude winds blow ; 
So the flower I loved and cherished 

Passed from out Life's vale of woe. 
— Tremblingly the leaves are falling 

From the tall, patrician elms. 
While alone I sit recalling 

Thoughts of O'S'E in yonder realms, 

(5for<x5a— 1848. 




POEMS. 25 



THE RUINED MIND. 

Oh God ! of all the bitter agony 
That flesh, keen- v/ruiig by Torture's knife, may feel; 
Of all the wounds that dread Remorse inflicts 
On souls he drives upon Despair's abyss ; 
Of fangs that gnaw the heart of slighted Love, 
Or chilis that desolate Affection's hearth, 
V/hat throe can equal that which rends the soul 
Of him that wakes to know the fearful truth 
That Reason totters on his regal throne — 
Who feels the spirit of his mighty Thought 
Departing with a mournful, lingering wing 
As loath to leave the shrine whereon was laid 
A glorious work for Genius' cunning hands 
To do ! O Christ! that I have known this day! 

No Fancy-Elves have sported with m^y thought, 
And conjured up a dream of seeming truth : 
It is Conviction's well-v.'eighed proof — more plain 
Than once I savy- and felt Consumption's flush 
Upon the cheek of licr, for whom awhile 
My heart made moan within its darkened cell 
Till Spring, that flattered ope the Rose, did send 

3 



I 



26 THE AVINNOAVING. 



Her Angel into my soul, (like sunshine 
Into the sick man's window sent,) to soothe 
My grief. 

I could have blessed the fate that made 
The madman's portion mine. But oh ! to live 
And feel the mind decaying day by day — 
Slower than the Flower dies, yet as sure. 
And blacker than the Night without its Stars — 
This, oh my God ! is fate to which the sleep 
Of Death were balm — to which the fate of him 
Who bore the stenching corpse bound unto himself. 
Were mild as maternal chast'ning to the child 
Beloved, The living trunk— -the dying mind ! 

They say the lustre from my eye is gone : 
They say 'tis like the murkey skies wherein 
No stars arise — where fitful gleams only break. 
As lightnings flash afor at sea when ships 
Go down. Am I mad ? O God, would I were ! 

The blind old bard of England's stormy day, — 
Within whose too-ambitious, sun-turned eyes 
The venging gods had shot malignant light ; 
Whose soul thus pent in rayless night, did burst 
Its thrall, and flash sunward its gorgeous wing. 
An walk on Heaven's crystal walls, and write 



POEMS. 

That grand Apocalypse that Christian men 
Admire, — did love to dream in God's sunshine, 
And speculate on Freedom's coming reign 
Of peace. The sounding chambers of his soul 
Were but the lighter when external light 
Was gone. The steady fires of Genius made 
A world of hallowed visions there ; as fair 
As that to which Arabia's daring sons 
Descended in their ardent thirst for lore.^- 
Nay, Milton could not all unhappy be ; 
For when Morning came, and he did sit 
Before his cottage door, (his daughters there 
On either side, intent with ready pen 
To catch his least inspired word,) could hear 
The Birds carol, the Insects hum, and even 
Could almost hear the very Grass growing 'neath 
His feet — so fine the ear compelled perforce 
To see as well as hear. Though lie himself 
Was old, and blind, and hated by his kind. 
His heart grew young in hope, his undimmed soul 
Renewed its olden fires, and he forgave 
His bitter foes, as there he sat and felt 
God's great work of benificence to man 
Still going on round, as't still shall go 
Through countless ages yet to dawn and set„ 
Nay, MiLTOx could not all unhappy be» 



28 



THE AViNNOWI>,G. 



Tlic starry Galij.i:o, in his midnight cell, 
Compassed around by bigot foes, yet felt 
The pleasures of creative mind ! And as 
He threw his hopeful thought into the far, 
Resplendent Age yet to be, godlike rose 
Above his bitter doom, and cried aloud — 
''Epur si mnovef' Ay, he could suffer chains 
To bind his limbs, and triumph still ; for well 
He knew that God's great laws immutable 
"Would speak for him in coming times. ^ ^ 

And they 
Who freely gave Life, Liberty and all, 

A willing sacrifice for God's most holy cause, 
"^^ad still a glorious recompense of Life 
iternal. Maiiius amid the ruins 
)f Carthage ; Spencek eating the bitter bread 
)f Poverty in haunts hence classic made ; 
So>iVXRi in exile dying homesick : 
Old Li:ae, deserted e"cn by filial love : 
Ay, each and all whose tears c"er wept tlieir great 
( 'alamity, had some sweet recompense 
That made their doom less bitter seem. 

Thank God 
() ye ! whose woes can find relief in tears — 
In Heaven's promise — or, (what is half as sweet,) 
In hope of earthly fame. But woe like miue 



POEMS. '29 

Is tearless. Ashes of the Hopes that once 
Illumined Reason's march, arc swept within 
The fountain of my tears, and they are quenched. 

At times the dead, cold blank tliat wraps my urain, 
As though a Vampyre grasped it in his hand, 
Departs ; and Memory, with her mystic key, 
Unlocks the treasured stores of sinless days — 
Restores with ever faithful hue and look. 
Each face and scene the heart holds dear. 
'Tis then my childhood's early Home I trace, 
And con its every charm with miser eye. 

A lowly cot within a valley nestled down, 
And flowers grew around its door, and bees 
Unceasing kept their toil-beguiling hum, 
AVhile birds did plunge in ambient air, as mad 
With some great ecstacy of song. From out 
The base of yon orbed hill a brooklet flowed 
Adown the vale, a modicum of whose 
Translucent waters trilled and sparkled o'er 
A mimic wheel. A tiny mill it was, 
AVhose wooden saw could only cleave the air ! 
The orchard old, whose every tree was known 
By its familiar name ; the meadow green. 
Whereon, when Evening's shadows came, we feared 



oO THE AVIISNOWIjNG. 

To look, lest Will-o"-the-Wisp should thither lead 
Us unaware ; the wood-girt pond wherein 
The sweetest water-lilies grew — ^all, all 
Divinely glow in Memory's magic glass. 
Far down the vale a white-spired church arose. 
And when the Sabbath's stillness came, and all 
The fragrant hay was lying in the fields 
Untouched, how beautifully the church-bell said 
Its message sweet from God. And, ceasing toil, 
In comely garb the people thither thronged 
To hear how Christ had died for them, and how 
The heavenly hosts made joy when sinners turned 
To God in their repentant hearts ; and they, 
The little children, hand in hand, were there. 
To hear of Him who loved them all so well. 

But ah ! too soon the cherished scenes decay. 
The while Oblivion's twilight shadows rise, 
And wrap my brain in dullness and in gloom. 
Yet through its hollow cells, as through the night. 
Anon some shrouded Thought will steal along, 
As spectres haunt the ruined vrall and keep. 

From blasted oaks the mistletoe will spring ; 
The arrow spent may serve some nobler aim ; 
But what, oh God ! can charm his soul to earth 



POEM'S. 



31 



Who feels his brain forsaken of the Dreams 

And Forms that whilom made their dwelling there T 

Hath Hope a lure to win his steps from Death, 

Where all is peace and equal state 1 Alas ! 

Of what avail were Earth's best boon to him 

Of MIND bereft? A chikVs poor plaything were 

As well ! 

Oh Hygia ! thou giver of health, 
Of laughing eye, and rosy lip and cheek, 
Hast thou no Balsam for the Dying Mind ? 
Oh, give me rich elixir — stay the touch 
That mildews — blasts — corrodes — benumbs my 

brain ! — 
Oh, stay the blight, or give me deepest draughts 
Of mandrao-ordia's oblivious wine ! 



Oh God ! thou sure, unfailing refuge here 
For him who sickens on Life's sharded way < 
Thou friend to him whom every friend forsakes, 
Thou balm for woes that nothing here can cure ; 
To THEE I turn in agony of soul 
And prayer unuttcra])le. My heart is whelmed 
In voiceless pain, and cannot ask its wish. 
Thy will be done ! 1 cannot lay my hand 
ITpon the soul's poor cage and say — Depart, 



32 THE WINNOWING. 

Tliou fiuttering Bii^d ! But oh, my God 1 how 

sweet 
Were death to mc, Mhose soul unceasing moans 
Above the wreck of Mind — the barque of Life, 
And all its rich argosy freight, bestrewed 
In stenching, tarnished splendor! Yet, oh God \ 
Thy will be done ! ^- -^ '^ * 

^cufh-Caroliiia — ISoO. 






POE.MS. 



83 



MIRIAM. 

Thk subject of the followiug poem was an orphaned Engii^k lady who canie 
to Georgia to support herself by teaching. Her spirit was imbued with a mel- 
ancholy profound and irradicable ; yet it was impossible not to be pleased with 
her gentle manners and sweet voice. She found warm friends and protectors, 
but they little availed. The cold, red clay of Georgia rests upon as gentle a 
bosom as ever made loveable and noble our human nature. 

How long shall I remember 

The orphan MiraAM, 
The loveliest Flower that ever 

Adorned the classic Cam I 

If I could wish my moments 

Of lengthened course to be^ 
I would but say, Flow only 

With her sweet memory ! 

She had not Beauty's moulding,. 

Its studied mien and airs ; 
But something in her aspect 

Enchained me unawares. 

Her eyes were as pure fountains 
That quench the pilgrim's thirst, 

Yet leave the spirit's longing 
More deep than 't was at first.. 



34 THE WI^NOWIKG. 



Her curls, like constant sunset. 
Fell o'er her pallid clieek. 

Where Sorrow sat ennobled — 
A beauty none may speak. 

Her voice was richest music — 
Her ' heart-strings were a lute 

And whoso heard its accents 
Was charmed, still and mute. 

The atmosphere around her 
Seemed hallowed aiway, 

As though sweet spirits o"er her 
Had made it brighter day. 

I ofttimes had this fancy. 

(Sithence a creed mature,) 
That visitants supernal 

Await upon the jDure, 

And breathe into the spirit 

A poppy redolence. 
That Vv'raps in softest visions 

The merely clayey sense ; 

Till the tendrils of affection 
Are loosened, one by one, 



POEMS, -f-'5 



And the spirit rises buoyant 
To realms beyond the sun. 

Else ^vhe^cforc die the flowers 
Ere Autumn's frost ensues ! 

Else wherefore dies the maiden 
That every Grace endues ? 

There is a flower that opers 
In th' murkiness of night. 

But shuts again its portals. 
Before the dawn of light. 

So oped the life of Miriam 
In Sorrow's chilly hour — 

A bud too early blasted 
To ever opo a flower. 

The Cypress tree is drooping 
Where MieIxS.m"s asleep, — 

There let the fairest flowers 
Their purest tears bcv.'cep ! 

Her only tomb my heart is, 
That sometimes melts in tear; 

In fear this dear memorial 
Will perish with my years. 



Ueorsia — lSi9. 



3b 



THE WINNOWING. 



THE BUTTERFLIES. 

JTrotn t!)r jra-nrf). 

Ye Butterflies ! with snovry wings, 
Careering o'er the swelling sea, 

Can"st say, sweet voyagers, when shall I 
On Avings as snowy follovv' ye ? 

Know ye, my wantons of the air, 
Know ye my lilaek-cyed Bcujadcre / 

If ye could lend your wings of light. 
My spirit would not linger here ! 

I'd leave to you the Roses sweet 
And on my airy pinions fly — 

Ma Baijaderc ! sweet Flower of I.ove, 
Upon thy hosom let me diei 







POEMS. 37 



THE COMINS ON OF WINTER. 

The Indian Summer's gone — the far-off v\-oods 
Have lost their dark green look ; 

Their falling leaves bestrew the forest walks, 
Or whirl away on the eddying brook. 

And Summer's birds less oft are heard to sing,^ 
The sweeter ones are gone away ; 

1 oft'nest hear the lone Woodpecker's taps. 
Or shrilly the pipe of the Jay. 

The hoar frost glitters o'er the gathered fields 
When Morning comes Avith lazy beams ; 

And spangled filigranes of crystal spars 
Meet midway on the pebbly streams. 

But blither still they sing for all the cold, 

As did the little barefoot boy 
That yestermorn ran quickly past my door. 

Carolling with a feigned joy. 

The clouds' deep shadows lie upon the fields. 

The sunlight falling faint between ; 

33ut oh ! how darker the shadowy memories rise 

As I survey the changing scene ! 
4 



88 THE WINNOW liSG. 

There is a melancholy joy that suits 

The pensive dreaminess of mind, 
To wander off into the pathless woods 

And hear the wailing of the wind. 

I've wandered all day long through yonder woods. 

Nor nothing profited nor done ; 
As on the brook the leaves went whirling by, 

My thoughts to naught but rever}' run. 

Betimes the Stripped Squirrel stared at nie. 
Or dropped his nuts upon my head ; — 

If others were like me, 'twere naught of men 
The forest tenents e'er could dread ! 

The night comes on — there's snov/ in yonder clouds.; 

Good night to Autumn fields, good night ; — 
To-morrow's dawn shall see the Earth array-ed 

In purest robes of spangled light ! 

Ncw-Hampsliire — 18.51- 




POEMS. o9 



HONOR TO FREE LABOR. 

FoiiGET awhile tlie hero-names 

That bhxze in ancient story : 
The humbler hero of to-day 

May claim his mead of glory. 
The Plongh, the Anvil and the Loom 

Shall have historic I3ages, 
And he that makes shall well deserve 

The praise of future ages. 

Who makes a blade of grass to grow 

Where all before was arid, 
Is greater than the victor king 

With kingdoms tributaried. 
The Plough runs smoothly o'er their graves 

Who toiled in War's endeavor ; 
The harvest waves where once they fougi-t, 

And there shall wave forever ! 

Who swings aloft the pondrous sledge. 

Some useful thing to fashion, 
Is nobler than the Lily-hand, 

The slave of lust and passion. 



40 THE WINNOWINOr. 

Whatever springs from Labor's hand 
Is free from shame and sorrow ; 

Its columned shaft shall catch the light 
That soonest dawns to-morrow ! 

The Loom ! — to Cartwkight be renown' 

Far greater than my ditty : 
His praise is spoken in the hum 

Of every Factory city I 
Nor less to him whose genius planned 

The fast-revolving spindle ! — 
While cotton grows on Southern plains 

Their fame shall never dwindle 1 

To Morse, who tamed th' electric flashy. 

And made it Thought's evangel, 
To tireless speeds from clime to clime 

Like Truth's far-flashing angel ; 
To Watt, above his steam-engine 

Of well-adjusted motion ; 
To Fulton, on his flaming barque 

Careering o'er the ocean ; 

To Sii(i:ffeii midst his printing types, 
Daguerre with sunbeams painting ;. 

Cassini, throwing up his streams 
To cheer the sick and fainting : 



POEMS. 41 

To each and all wliose genius teems 
With things of worth and beauty, 

Be freely poured the Muses' praise — 
A pleasure and a duty. 

To make — it is to rule a world 

Of Genius' own creation; 
To toil — it is to beautify 

For Time's perpetuation. 
When mind and hand in concert work. 

Earth's secrets ope before them ; 
Triumphal arches, hugest domes, 

Instanter tower o'er them I 

No more the sons of Fame shall throng 

Where foemen bid defiance ; 
A brighter prize shall lead them through 

The paths of Art and Science ! 
Grow green, ye fields ! and wave, ye woods ! 

In God's own sunlight beaming ; 
No more amid your happy vales 

Are War's red banners gleaming ! 

(Jeorgia— 1847. 



4^s^ 



42 THE WINNOWING. 



THE- SMILE. 

The heavens were glowing 'neath Morning's first beam, 
As brightly he came thro' the portals of Day, 
When swiftly adown the Light's silvery stream, 
A Smile, like an angel, was holding its way. 

It came to the earth — and a cottage of clay 

Was blest with the love that fell bright from its wing ; 

It stole to the lip of a child at its play, 

And wreathed o'er its face wdtli the sunniest spring. 

The mother delightedly hung o'er her child, 
And brother and sister came fondly around. 
And echoed his calling, right merry and wild. 
Till trembled the air with the jubilant sound ! 

That Smile, as a glance, passed from face unto face,. 
And cheered every heart wdth a blessing benign ; 
Nor Sorrows nor Cares but departed apace. 
While davfning they saw but that heavenly sign. 

Oh ! sweet is the day, and delightful the earth. 
When Smiles in the morning bless children and friends, 
For Anger and Friendship join hands at the hearth,. 
And peace to each heart like a spirit descends ! 

Geor^a~1848. 



POEMS. 



43 



OLDEN MEMORIES. 
I. 

When the poppy-wrcathcd Night 
Fills my soul with dreamy sleep, 
Mute around my aching heart 
Olden Memories softly creep ; 
And as tearful mourners watch 
Still a-near the lovely dead, 
There they watch with pallid Hopes 
Whose inspiring souls have fled. 

II. 
Sleep may pour her opiate 
Like a balm, into my soul, 
But the ghosts of perished Dreams 
Haunt its cells without control. 
Back they come in sheeny robes, 
And, with voice as sweet as yore. 
Whisper o'er my heart" s light chords 
Nevermore ! O nevermore ! 

III. 

When the rosy-blushing Morn 
Sly into my window pccpsy 



44 



THE WINNOWING. 



And dispels the gentle drug 
That my soul in slumber steeps, 
Far away the watchers fly. 
Waving wings that loathly soar, 
While they weep and sadly sigh 
N&cermore ! O nevermore I 



Oeorsria— 1S48. 







''#'li^.^ 



POEMS. 



45 



THE HUMAN SOUL, 

The human soul i O, idly still 

The searching thought we squander : 

Beyond Life's dim and twilight bound 
No living foot may wander I 

The Dead are gone into that realm 

No living eye may enter ; 
But thence they cannot come to me 

To act my spirit's Mentor ! 

Oh ! vain it were to tire the eye 

Perusing Plato's pages, 
And vainer still to break the gloom 

That hovers o'er the Ages. 

The worm hath reveled o'er their hearts — 
The solid tombs have crumbled ; 

The demi-gods of Fame are dust. 
And all their might is humbled ! 

They cannot speak ! From out the gloom 
There comes no truthful token — 

Unto our doubting, wavering thought 
No spirit- word is spoken ! 



46 THE AVi^sNOWIXG. 



The wuikl of Beauty smiles around. 

The world of God within us ; 
Yet all that eye or thought can know 

Will not to Faith e'er win us. 

We doubt — we delve — we ponder still. 
And What ? and Where? we question : 

We fear to take the human heart's 
Or ev'n a flower's suggestion ! 

Be still, proud Reason ! on thy throne, 

Thou art not self-created ; 
Thy sway hath hounds thou canst not pass. 

Thy reign is arbitrated ! 

The Lark encaged will ceaseless pine 

To soar to fields of azure ; 
And something in us finds not here 

Its all-sufficing measure I 

Oh ! check the proud, presumptions swell 

Of Reason's vain demurring. 
And in thy weakness turn to Faith, 

Of instinct more unerring ! 



Gcorgiar- 184y 



roEMS. 4 



MY HEART'S (JUEEN. 

Dr.e beiwou fur thee and me.— D. II- JacqlkS. 
I. 

Not the tiling of Fashion's ortist 

Is the maiden I adore ; 
Not the toy of wealth unbounded 

Sways my heart forevermore ! 
Beauty's charm and virtue's treasure 

Better are than fortune's sheen : 
"Twas for these my heart first chose her 

\ye to be its gentle queen ! 

When you meet her, pass her by — 
Seek some maid in F(n-tune's train : 
Tarn away your venal eye 
From the cheek of Fanny Vane, 



II. 



In your ramble have you seen her — 
Seen my own heart's peerless queen 

While she gathered morning flowers, 
Tripping o'er the dewy green ! 



48 



THE WINNOWING. 



Blushed she not e'en like the young rose 
'Neath your rude and earnest gaze ? 

Fell her eyes not on the greensward 
When your look bespoke your praise ? 

When again you meet my heart's queen 
Bend upon admiring knee, 
Nor with look's too earnest gaze 
Press upon her purity ! 




POEMS. 49 



LOVE^S DAINTy ROMANCE. 

PART FIRST. 

It was a moonlit night in June, 
And all tlie perfumed air 

Was laden with a plaintive tune 
Of musical despair. 

A Mocking-Bird was plaining low 

In sorrow for his mate : 
His heart dissolved in tones of woe 

As he bewailed his fate. 

Alas! I said, 'tis little joy 
That Love can make us here ; 

His purest treasure's but alloy, 
A having and a tear ! 

And oft is Love's auroral morn 

Beclouded ere its noon, 
By hearts that in a haughty scorn 

Reject its purest boon. 

And then I mused upon the stars, 
How they no fading knew ; 
4 



50 THE wi>;novving. 



And tlien upon the orient bars, 
Befrecked Avith Morning's hue. 

The sun, the clouds, the starry train, 
The rainbow's arch of tears. 

Immortal beauty still retain 
Through all the lapse of years. 

But Love departs — his idol grows 
Like Memnon's — voiceles, cold — 

And they that made the plighted vows 
Forget the thoughts of old. 

The Mock-Bird's song of sorrow deep 

Was latest in my ears. 
And then it wailed into my sleep 

Upon a sea of tears. 

I closed my eyes to Venus' light. 
And all my tender thought 

Was of the dreaminess of Night 
To overflowing fraught. 

There was an eye looked in my soul, 
A soft blue eye and meek ; 

And once methought that there did roll 
A tear upon my cheek. 



POEMS. 

The angel of my dream, methouglit, 

Then met me in a kiss — 
A touch that instantaneous wrought 

A wild, ecstatic bliss. 

How long in that sweet sleep I lay 
No count of mine made known — 

My spirit met the coming day 
With sunrise of its OAvn. 

But list ! what voice is it that grieves 
In tones so soft and sweet 1 

A voice so sweet that e'en the leaves 
Its murmurings repeat. 

Song. 
'Tis well with the Flower 

That lives but a day — 
The tears of the Twilight 

Beweep its decay. 
'Tis well with the Hours 

That quickly are flown— 
They hallow in memory 

The joys we have known. 

'Tis well Avith the Cloudlet 
That fades from our sight — 

All pure in its being, 
It fades into light. 



51 



i^2 THE WINNOWING. 



'Tis well with the Planet 
Hurled down from its throne • 

Such glorious fading 
No mortal hath known. 

Tis well with each creature 

Of earth and of air — 
They sport an existence 

Unburdened by care. 
But woe for the maiden 

Whose love-laden heart 
Must silently treasure 

The pang and the smart, — 

Who poureth her spirit 

As lavish as rain — 
Who loves, but whose love is 

Keturned not again ! 
Though Modesty's vestals 

Keep ward ever nigh, 
Her secret's betrayed by 

A glance or a sigh. 

The heart of the maiden 

Hath many a tone, 
But sighs for the music 

Of one not its own. 
But oh ! if her glances 

Awaken no love, 
Forgive her the sinning 

Of ana'cls above ! 



POEMS. 53 

As sweet as words that bashful tell 

The love of many years, 
As strange as tho'ts that sudden swell 

At beauty's half-hid tears ; 

So soft that voice upon the air 

Its soulful cadence trilled, 
So sweetly strange the tumults were 

That through my bosom thrilled. 

I looked around in sweet amaze 

To see from whence the sound, 
But naught rewarded my poor gaze 

Saxe footsteps on the ground ! 

Now, Dian of the Silver Bow, 

You need not doff your shoe ; 
So fair a one as this, I trow, 

Was never worn by you ! 

And look ! the very grass upsprings 

Beneath its envied tread — 
So light, the wearer sure had wings 

And so has quickly fled ! 

My footsteps fondly lingered still 
Upon that magic ground, 



54 THE WINNOWING. 

Like one enchanted late, whose will 
Would fain again be bound. 

PART SECOND. 

So indestructable the light 

That memories prolong, 
We are the happier for a sight, 

And for a simple song. 

That morn I was in happy mood, 
And yet I scarce knew why — 

Where'er I walked nor field nor wood 
Had aught to win my eye. 

One question clamber' d in my thought 
Where'er I roved along — 

How can be seen, how can be caught 
My morning bird of song ? 

When sunset's gold-dust showers rain 
From out the bannered west. 

The arbor's rustic seat again 
Shall be my nightly rest. 

And I will seem to woo the Moon 
As cold she moves along. 



POEMS. 

The whiles I watch to catch eftsoon 
My morning bird of song. 

Two livelong nights my vigils burned 

Into the opening day, 
Before to me my bird returned 

To sing her morning lay. 

The third ! oh sweet auspicious morn, 

Devoid of all annoy ! 
The very trees, with newborn flowers, 

Were tremulous with joy ! 

As 'tween a thought and dream I lay, 

I felt the foliage stirred, 
And with a gentle, quick assay 

I caught my timid bird. 

In maiden shame her blushing cheek 
Was nestled close to mine ; 

And when her blue eyes dared to speak 
They said " Forever thine !" 

And so I won my Allie Rose, 

So timid yet so bold ; 
And love between us constant grows— 

Let common loves grow cold ! 



57 



NOTES 



10. The rock here spoken of lies in the middle of the brook; 
and the water which flows under it, through some unseen contri- 
vance, causes a kind of liquid sound resembling the notes of the 
Piano-Eorte. I early called it, in consequence, the Aquian Harp. 

11. Some learned philosopher— I forget who— has argued to 
great length in fayor of the idea that America was the original 
seat of Paradise. 

1 2 The Arabian romancers tell of an enchanted library, full 
of fairy wonders and mystic lore, hid deep in the bosom of a high 
mountain, the wonderful entrance of which opened but once in 
a year, and into which whoever dared to enter was forced there- 
fore to remain a twelvemonth. When the portal again opened 
he was ready again to go forth " so armed in forbidden lore as to 
be able to soar above the heads of the multitude, and to control 
the powers of nature." 



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